Dear Diary: Julian Assange’s sleepover party

Julian Assange's sleepover party

Each week the National Post follows the possible thoughts of a notable newsmaker. This week the life of Julian Assange as imagined by Tristin Hopper

MONDAY

It may seem like a simple sex assault extradition, but I wouldn’t stand a chance of setting foot on Swedish soil before getting a ricin pellet in the neck. I know too much: The invisible helicopters, the chemtrails, the water fluoridation, the secret U.S. plan to suppress the water-powered car. The only question now is whether my U.S.-funded assassins would do it employing a Manchurian Candidate or a false flag attack. Thus, my only option was to don a disguise and set out in search of a country not yet seized by the forces of darkness.

I tried New Zealand, but discovered it was just a painting of a door on the side of the Australian embassy. And when I walked into the French embassy, they just pretended like they couldn’t speak English. As a hard rain kicked up, the black dye in my hair started to run, arousing the suspicions of a couple nearby bobbies. I darted into a nearby curry house to avoid them, and slipped away through the rear entrance. As the heavy steel door closed behind me, I squinted through the raindrops and realized providence had brought me to the front doorstep of the only friend I had left in the world: The Ecuadorian Embassy.

Related

Did you know Ecuador takes its name from the Equator, which passes within only a few miles of its capital city, Quito? Or that it is the birthplace of famed Olympic speedwalker Jefferson Pérez? Well, one thing I have definitely learned about the “El Mitad del Mundo,” as they like to call it, is that, in addition to their robust plantain export economy, Ecuadorians are renowned for their hospitality. They gave me a cot in their photocopier room and even presented me with my even my own Alpaca blanket. I can see my Ecuadorian future already: I’ll buy a hacienda on the coast, keep a few hutches of guinea pigs and fulfill my lifelong dream of riding a Galapagos tortoise. Adolfa and Benita at reception tell me the country has a long history of welcoming political refugees.

WEDNESDAY

President Correa called me about eight times today: Asking if the bed was soft enough, whether the air conditioning was on too high, whether I preferred mangos or kiwis in my morning fruit basket, and saying he was really looking forward to “hanging out” once I arrived. Ambassador Alban told me she’s working full-time on the asylum issue before asking me to sign another stack of 8×10 portraits, these ones for her “mother’s friend’s friends.” Then, at noon, the girls from the passport office held an overly elaborate lunch spread of goat stew and potato pancakes. What is it they normally do in this embassy anyway? Because they certainly seem to have a lot of time on their hands. Another thing: You know that repetitive panpipe music they sell at drugstores next to the CDs of New Age Beatles covers? That’s pretty much what I’m getting 24 hours a day now.

THURSDAY

I couldn’t help noticing a steady stream of people coming into my room today asking for autographs, sifting through my things or having their children pose with me. Then I noticed this sign hung at reception: “Miren al miedoso pirata de Internet Julian Assange! Solo cinco libras!” I don’t know what that means, but I have a sneaking suspicion they’re charging admission to see me.

Plus, my missing socks seem to keep turning up on eBay. I commenced the standard procedure of covering every window and mirror in my room with black paint and sweeping for electronic bugs by sawing open the furniture and ripping up the carpet. Found nothing. Silly me.

FRIDAY

I’ve just realized that even if my asylum application is approved, this embassy is in the unfortunate condition of being completely surrounded by England. Luckily, I was rooting through the embassy’s video collection to see if they had any more Ecuadorian soap operas when I stumbled upon a copy of the Bourne Identity. And there it was.

Halfway through, Jason Bourne is in a U.S. embassy, completely surrounded by enemies when he mounts a daring escape off the roof. Of course! I asked Alberto for the roof key, but he said he’d lost it. My backup plan was simply to karate kick my way through the two police officers guarding the front door — but dammit, the London Police sent the ones with guns this time. So, my new plan is to just hunker down here. I’ll grow a beard, help the Ecuadorians set up an official website that doesn’t look like it was designed by a kindergarten class and maybe pick up some part-time work processing their backlog of butterfly collection permits. I’ll bide my time. In 10 or 20 years, the world will be too wrapped up in the coming Masonic rebellions to notice that Julian Assange has finally escaped.

Almost Done!

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